


Remembrance

by BlueManta



Category: No Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-30
Updated: 2014-04-30
Packaged: 2018-01-21 09:36:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1546136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueManta/pseuds/BlueManta





	Remembrance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Angel_Negra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angel_Negra/gifts).



Steve adjusted his hat so the brim shut out the late sun that had lain across his eyes and shone white in his lashes.

Sam rolled his head to one side to look up at Steve.

Natasha watched them with an emotion she couldn't quite define. There were only two canvas chairs at the beach house, so she had one as the guest while Steve had the other; Sam sat on a rug next to Steve's chair, leaning back against Steve's leg. Natasha didn't understand how Sam could be comfortable there. The day was warm and he was wearing an old bathing suit.

Steve picked up a glass of lemonade from the little crate beside him and sipped from it; then he handed the glass to Sam, who also drank, now looking out to sea. He just glanced at Steve as he gave the glass back.

Natasha asked, "Are either of you going back this year? For the anniversary?"

"No," Sam said absently, still looking toward the horizon.

"Neither of us needs to go back to remember," Steve said, his hand resting briefly on Sam's hair, then on his shoulder. 

Sam sat up straight, and Steve's hand fell away. "That's quite a cloud bank out there," he said, "looks like rain. If I want to bathe I should probably do it now. Do either of you mind?"

"No," Natasha said.

Sam got to his feet, and Steve smiled up at him. "Go on, enjoy your swim."

Sam bent and tapped Steve on the nose with one finger. "You're only lucky we have a guest, or I'd haul your carcass down there and drop you in," then winked at her Natasha and went off down the beach.

"You could bathe too, if you wanted," Natasha said.

"Oh," Steve said, startled, "no. Thank you, but really I'd rather not."

They both sat and watched Sam wade in, pause, wade farther, and then begin to swim.

"A lot of us do go, for the anniversary," Natasha said. "That's all, why I asked. It's been four years."

"I know," Steve said. "And we have been back, actually. Not to the graveyards, though."

"No?"

The blue eyes that had once haunted her dreams turned toward her, and Steve said evenly, "No. We don't need to go there, to remember them."

Natasha didn't know what to say about that so she kept her silence. Four years ago. Just one week, to get where they were. To lose all those lives, so many were their friends. To make every battle they had won becoming futile, when there was no way for them to prevent... _that_ from happening anyway.

If there was a God, he, or she, probably had given up on them the day they started believing they could do without and transcend their mortality, becoming gods—Schmidt...or everyone of them, every super-people.

Maybe it was true, they all would be better without remember. If only they could forget.

"So you just stay here?" she asked, changing the subject.

"When we can."

"Do you do everything together?" Natasha was appalled to hear her own voice say that.

Steve was amused. "Not everything." He turned his gaze back to the water, where Sam was still swimming. "I seldom swim."

* * * * *

Later, after Natasha had gone, they'd had their evening meal and taken a late walk because it didn't really rain. Now they were back to the shelter, that had become their home for the last three years. They built it themselves, with every scrap and piece they had found in the area still in good condition. Sam cleared his throat and spoke after a lengthy silence: "Sorry I cut out on you."

They were getting ready for bed. Steve raised his eyes from his pants he was unbuckling. Then lowered them again. "And I thought you really wanted to bathe," he said smiling.

"What I _really_ wanted was to get that suit wet," he said, mouth twitching into that half-smile of his. "Love the way you look at me then."

Steve loved to look. However, he preferred those times Sam bathed nude.

Steve reached out and ran his fingertips along Sam's jaw, which tilted up and their eyes met. He reached up with his thumb and ran it from cheekbone to jaw; shifting his hand slightly, he drew the same thumb down Sam's nose and dropped to trace his lips. Then Steve opened his hand and covered as much of Sam's face as he could, holding it. Sam closed his eyes.

Then he opened them; Steve dropped his hand. They finished removing their clothes and Steve hopped on top of the bed. Steve watched Sam.

There was his old scar on his chest, and along one upper arm.

"Tired?" Sam asked, pausing on his hands and knee on the mattress, cock and balls hanging, his eyes bright.

"You'd wish. Come here, punk," Steve said, rolling on his hip, and Sam did.

They'd discovered each other in sex and comforted each other, explored and celebrated, been angry and desperate and full of grief, lazy and good-natured and even a bit bored; how anyone could be more married, Steve could not imagine.

For some reason, the love they made here at the beach shelter was often special. As they kissed and petted each other now. He felt unusually aware of the textures of Sam's hair and scalp under his moving fingertips, the tastes of his mouth and lips and cheek and neck, and when Steve blinked and looked, the long curve bobbled as Sam swallowed, lashes dark against his sun-tanned cheeks.

Steve placed tiny, teasing kisses on the pulsing artery, sucking but keeping the contact short, and Sam made a quiet sound and moved toward the headboard to get the softer skin of his lower throat into the way. Steve obliged, and then lapped the spot just above his lover's collarbone, and Sam hummed again.

Sam moved his hands on Steve's head, combing through his hair, carding and tangling it. Steve was glad he hadn't had it cut, though he'd meant to. The fingers closed and tugged a little. Sam raised his head, looked Steve in the eyes, then came down, taking his mouth, the slow rhythms of jaw and tongue and lips pulling Steve to and fro like waves. Sam's hand, too, swept up to Steve's shoulder and down the spine, up and down, pressing flat and dragging slowly while the other hand still held and kneaded his head. One of Steve's legs slid between Sam's, which twined around it, rubbing too. Steve pulled the sturdy torso even closer, squirmed to feel their cocks rub together, grow together, moisten each other.

He arched his neck and pulled in a deeper breath, and another because Sam was kissing his throat now, rolling him onto his back and lying on him, hands moving up and down both Steve's sides, reaching lower, hands skimming over both his thighs. Rubbing them gently. Steve's cock was held between their stomachs and Sam's hung next to Steve's leg, brushing farther along the thigh as Sam moved to suck on Steve's nipples.

That felt good, but pleased Sam more to do than Steve to have it done, and after a little while Steve rubbed his lover's cheek to get his attention, stretching his other arm to the bedside table and the little jar of grease. "You?" he asked.

"Yes," Sam said, "yes," rising, pulling the lid off but not taking the jar. He knelt straddling Steve, flipped the lid toward the table, and took his own buttocks in both hands to separate them. Steve scooped out some of the greasy ointment, put the tin in the corner of Sam's leg and his own side, and reached under to play around, moisten, stretch, fondle the opening while he took the eager cock that bobbed in front of his face firmly in the other hand. Sam rocked back onto one hand and forward into the other, swivelled and twisted, threw his head back.  
"Yes, dance for me," Steve whispered entranced.  
Sam sat down on Steve's hand, not entirely on purpose. He got up again, both of them grinning and Steve scrambling underneath to position his cock, and Sam sat again, slowly, groaning, holding the thigh that Steve pushed against him, gripping and releasing each inch of cock as he took it. Then pushed up and sat down again, and now the moan came from Steve, who pressed into him as much as he could, then sagged as Sam raised himself again.

It would be perfect, Steve thought, if only he could suck Sam at the same time, but such contortions were beyond him. Instead he fumbled for the lubricant again and used both hands, spreading grease back and forth the length of Sam's cock, twisting round a little and squeezing a little, swirling around the head and finding the sweetest spots. " _So_ good," Sam told him, moving faster.

Steve let go with one hand, moved it to finger, then press, then rotate the balls in their fuzzy sac, feeling them contract, and at the last moment rocked up, holding tighter, pushing down and up with his legs to hold Sam in place, tilting the stiff cock upright and mouthing whatever skin and scar and nipple he could reach, as Sam let his orgasm go.

Steve fell back and Sam fell with him, making a sound midway between laughter and speech, his muscles still contracting and forcing Steve's mouth open in a silent cry. Sam grabbed the headboard and thumped it against the wall, said "Yes, come on, come on," in Steve's ear, and licked—that did it for Steve, a drop like a change of air-pressure while flying, and another, and again.

Sam closed Steve's mouth with a kiss, holding on with all four limbs. Steve slid his hands up from waist to hair and gripped, back to kissing as if they would have started all over again, though he knew what would have really happened now was a slow drift into lassitude and sleep.

The world was in shambles. The ruins and rubble of the disaster were evident everywhere in both bombed-out-like cities and the forestry expanses, turned into burned out, wastelands. And yet, as he fell asleep, cocooned in their reciprocal closeness, his limbs entangled to Sam's, Steve felt he could forget. Just for a while.


End file.
